


Covered

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-23
Updated: 2019-12-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:35:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21916861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Crowley wakes up.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 112





	Covered

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lisalicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lisalicious/gifts).



For a moment, just after opening, Crowley’s eyes don’t work. The room is too dark, and his brain hasn’t caught up, and the lack of direction or confirmation has his mind spinning through centuries, trying to pin down the response needed.

As his eyes adjust, he feels the bed dip and rustle, and he turns in confusion.

_Angel_.

His angel. Aziraphale.

Slowly, the pounding timpani in his chest morphs into a steadier rhumba, and he looks at the curves of him, softened by the falling fabric that hangs from the high points and puddles somewhere between them. 

Angel.

Aziraphale doesn’t always sleep, even if Crowley does. He sometimes stays, stroking the demon’s hair, helping his mind and body unwind. He sometimes knots arms and legs comfortably up with him, and Crowley drifts on not-quite-sleep, his mind and body resting and slowing to almost a stop. A gliding, floating feeling, like unfurling your wings and riding the thermal currents effortlessly, only distantly aware of the world spinning gradually beneath you…

But right now, the angel is sleeping. A rather ridiculous assortment of pillows, fine pyjamas, and warm layers of fabric that bundle him up like a dumpling. He’s sleeping, and he’s happy.

Unconscious like this, Crowley can take advantage of the moment to observe him without interference. He can memorise the pattern of curls in his hair, around his ear, and know he’s two days beyond his normal barber’s appointment. (The slight shagginess, imperceptible to most, is beyond endearing to him.) 

He can admire the soft, slack lines around his eyes and mouth, wiped clean from concern. The slight wrinkle of his nose when a thought passes between his ears, and the occasional snort that follows on. 

Aziraphale steals the covers. Crowley steals them back. Aziraphale steals them again, and Crowley will mould himself over the angel’s spine and take his heat right from the source. Nose in his neck. Arm over his waist. He revels in the comfort of being so close, and of being so safe. So safe that to be oblivious together is to be utterly right. 

The angel turns in his sleep, and squirms closer. Crowley smiles, and kisses his hair. He closes his eyes and breathes in his scent. It smells of home.


End file.
